


No Such Thing As Heroes

by PrioritiesSorted



Category: In The Flesh, Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Gen, Ian POV, M/M, a lot of feelings tbh, and that Ian doesn't have his first major episode until after he makes it through basic, but you probably do have to have watched Shameless?, let's just pretend these timelines are compatible okay, post Season 3 (Shameless), pre-series (In The Flesh), you don't have to have seen ITF for this to make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You just… you remind me of someone.”<br/>“Yeah?”<br/>“Yeah. His Dad’s an asshole too.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Such Thing As Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this idea just sort of came to me on account of two of my favourite boys both being in the army. 
> 
> Idk idk just roll with it.

_Not all tales have happy endings, we can't keep pretending  
_ _'Cause there's no such thing as heroes who are queer._

_\- Jason McConnell, Bare: A Pop Opera._

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t expected it to be so fucking cold. When they show pictures of Afghanistan on the news it’s always of the sun blazing down onto the sandy desert. What they don’t tell you is that once the sun goes down all the heat gets sucked from the air. It’s not as cold as Chicago winter, and the ground on which he sits is still clinging to the last vestiges of warmth, but after a day of walking through the sweltering heat, it feels colder. Ian’s grateful for the burn of smoke in his lungs, and wonders whether, without the smoke, he’d still be able to see his breath. He jumps at the sound of boots crunching on the dirt, and a gruff voice asking,

“Could I bum a fag?”

He’s English; it’s as obvious from his slang as from his accent, and Ian smiles as he turns to reply,

“I dunno, man. You gonna buy me a drink first?”

The guy frowns, starting slightly, before realising Ian’s joking and letting out a huff of laughter. He smiles as he takes the cigarette Ian offers, dropping onto the dusty ground next to him.

“Next pub we see, mate,” he promises, and Ian’s answering smirk feels more bitter than he intended.

“I won’t hold my breath. It’s Gallagher, by the way.”

“Macy.”

They lapse into silence, the only sounds the occasional tread of boots in the camp behind them, or the rumble of a passing jeep; the headlights light up the smoke streams in the air like city smog.

“Fuck, it’s quiet.” Macy says eventually. Ian wants to tease him for stating the obvious, but he knows what he means. Living in such close quarters with so many people is intense, even for him. The rare moments of quiet come only when they’re preparing for a mission, and then the tension is so high it’s like ringing in your ears.

“You complaining?” Ian asks eventually, and Macy shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s nice. I’m still not used to all the noise.”

“Me neither,” Ian admits, “and I’ve got five siblings at home. Should be used to it.”

“Shit, really?”

“Really. Two older three younger. What about you?”

“Just me. Though my best mate has a little sister; I spent so much time round their house when I was younger it sort of feels like she’s mine as well.”

Ian wonders at that: he knows where Macy’s coming from, he’s just as protective of Mandy as he is of Fiona or Debbie, after all, but that’s because she _is_ his best friend. Still, he doesn’t like to think about her out here, because thinking about Mandy leads to thinking about Mickey, and thinking about Mickey is the last thing he wants to do. The army has been good for Not Thinking About Mickey; there isn’t enough time between training and missions and collapsing, exhausted, into his sleeping bag at the end of the day. But though he relishes the moments of quiet he can find in the constant buzz of activity, he also dreads the clarity they bring to his mind, allowing the poison of his memories to seep in. He shakes his head to clear them, and Macy turns to him,

“You all right?”

“Yeah I just… yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Look, I’m heading back now, it’s bloody freezing. Thanks for the smoke: if we’re both still here when post arrives come and find me; Dad always sends a pack.” Macy looks almost reluctant to go, so Ian puts on his most winning smile and says,

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Macy nods and stands: something flutters out of his fatigues as he rises, and Ian’s hand shoots out to grab it; it’s a photograph, torn and ragged at the edges, and smudgy with fingerprints. The photograph must be at least five or six years old, because one of the figures is definitely Macy (younger, the last vestiges of puppy fat clinging to his cheeks); his arm is slung casually around a smaller boy, and they’re laughing at something just beyond the camera. A white crease runs between the two figures, as though Macy had folded the image so that it only showed one smiling face.

He looks up, thinking to shout after Macy, but he’s disappeared back into the camp, so Ian pockets the photograph and stubs out his cigarette, thinking how weird it is that he’s looking forward to curling up in his sleeping bag on the hard ground.

It’s a few days before he sees Macy again, and when he does, he almost forgets about the crumpled picture in his breast pocket. The sun is just going down when Ian spots him out of the corner of his eye, washing his dinner things alone; Ian’s glad there’s no-one else around when he jogs over and says,

“Hey, you dropped this the other night.”

It’s like Macy’s had the air knocked out of him; when his trembling hand reaches for the picture Ian doesn’t know if he’s going to laugh or cry.

“Thanks.” Macy breathes, and Ian feels suddenly uncomfortable: he barely knows this guy, and yet he’s still standing awkwardly while Macy clutches the photograph with a kind of violent reverence.

“Who is he?” The question is out before he can stop it, and Ian backtracks immediately, “Not that it’s any of my business. I shouldn’t-“

“Kieren. His name’s Kieren. He’s my- he was- he _is_ my best mate.” Macy looks like he’s trying to say something more, but his chest only tightens and releases as he looks down at the photograph.

“Hey, you get post yesterday?” Ian asks suddenly, and Macy nods. “Well then you owe me a smoke.”

Macy exhales, seeming relieved, and nods.

“Yeah, I’ll just run and get my pack.”

It’s less than a minute before he returns with the cigarettes clutched in his hand (the photograph now out of sight: Ian can’t help wondering what he did with it), and follows Ian to the spot they had occupied the previous night. There is still some bustle around the camp as they light up, but somehow it makes the silence in which they take their first drags all the more pronounced.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone, in case you were worried about that.” Ian says eventually; he feels awkward, like he’s making more of this than he needs to, but Macy visibly relaxes.

“Thanks.”

He knows he should change the subject, that Macy is clearly uncomfortable with Ian (or anyone) knowing his weakness, but there’s something about Macy’s manner that is so painfully familiar to Ian that it’s almost a compulsion when he says,

“It’d be pretty hypocritical of me to judge you, anyway.”

“For what?”

Ian cocks an eyebrow, and in the back of his mind he can still hear Lip: _that was a bit gay._ Macy’s eyes widen and he takes a step back before stuttering,

“What? I’m not-“

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

Macy doesn’t answer, choosing instead to take a deep drag of his cigarette. He flicks the ash from the tip and watches the still burning debris skip across the sand.

“It’s my Dad,” Macy says eventually, “he’d… I dunno what he’d do. Nothing good.”

He’s refusing to look at Ian, and something in the set of his shoulders when he mentions his father, the way he straightens his back and pushes out his chin, which makes Ian ache. He doesn’t want to ask, he really doesn’t, but the words spill out against his will anyway,

“That why you’re here?”

“Yeah. No. Sort of.”

Ian can’t help but laugh at that, a harsh huff of breath that feels jagged even as it leaves him. Macy looks at him from the corner of his eye, hurt, and Ian hurries to explain,

“You just… you remind me of someone.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. His Dad’s an asshole too.”

“He’s not- my Dad… he just wants what’s best for me.”

Ian does his best not to roll his eyes at the way Macy plays with the cigarette box as he speaks; it’s obvious he doesn’t believe a word of what he says, and Ian scoffs,

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“Bull. Shit.” Ian repeats, and Macy draws his legs up towards his body, protective, as he asks,

“The fuck do you know about it?”

“I know you’re frightened enough of the guy to run all the way out here instead of telling him you’re gay.”

“That’s not it. It’s not. Ren’s going to art school in September; he’ll meet other people there, better people, people who can-“

“People who are allowed to be who they are? Jesus, Macy. You can tell yourself it’s for his good if you want to but you gotta know that’s bullshit. You can’t face up to your Dad, I can understand that, really I can, but don’t make out like it’s for your friend’s benefit. You even ask him what he wanted, or did you just leave?”

Macy doesn’t reply; he’s staring fixedly at the horizon, his cigarette burnt almost down to the filter, the ash hanging long and unnoticed.

“Yeah, thought so.”

“You know everything, then, do you?”

“Nah, just about guys like you.”

“Guys like me?”

“Yeah; the ones who think being gay stops them being men, or some shit. Feel like you have to do something to make you a real man, like join the army or get married.” He can hear the bitterness in his own voice, but the words are pouring out now, and he’s been wanting to say them for so long, “But the thing is, the thing you don’t realise is that you’re not weak because you’re gay, you’re weak because you’re cowards. You’re so afraid of what everyone’ll think, of your fucking _Fathers,_ you think you can treat other people like shit just because they love you.”

He sneaks a glance at Macy out of the corner of his eye, bracing himself for a punch, but it doesn’t come. Macy’s hands are balled into fists, and when he speaks, his voice shakes slightly.

“You done?”

“Yeah… yeah.”

“Good.” He takes another cigarette from the pack and lights it with trembling hands, taking a deep drag. Ian watches him, wary, and the silence stretches out for miles across the endless desert. Macy isn’t looking at him, and Ian takes it as his cue to leave; he’s halfway to his feet when Macy speaks,

“You’re talking out of your arse, y’know. I mean, maybe you get some of it, the surface stuff, but you don’t really know shit about what it’s like. To be so fucking scared all the time, and not just for yourself, for the person you- I didn’t come here for me, I came here for him. He deserves better than me, someone who can love him in the open, whose Dad wouldn’t kill him if he ever found out. I’m not gonna pretend to know what your baggage is, mate, but this bloke I remind you of, I’m not him.”

Ian wants to say something, he wants to fight, but he only sits, dumb. Macy stubs his cigarette out, only half finished, and stands. He holds out a hand to help Ian to his feet, and Ian takes it reluctantly, allowing Macy to pull him up.

They walk back towards the light of the camp in silence, kicking at the rocks and the sand as they go. There’s a question burning in Ian, but even after all they’ve talked about, it seems too personal. Still, it eats at him as the camp draws closer, and it’s with a sort of desperation that he finally blurts,

“Does he know?”

Macy just stares at him for a moment, and for a hideous moment Ian thinks he’s going to have to spell it out, before Macy stutters,

“We didn’t- I never- but, yeah. Yeah he knows.”

The memories come rushing back, then. Mickey in the dugouts, Mickey kissing him in the van, Mickey smiling when he thought Ian couldn’t see him in the dark of the Milkovich living room.

“Does he?” Ian knows the smirk he gives is bitter, and there’s a twisted kind of triumph in the way he leaves Macy, standing stricken in the harsh white of the floodlight.  


* * *

 

Ian smokes alone the next evening, and he does nothing to check the tears streaming down his face as he stares out into the night. He can hear the conversation going on in the camp, though he doesn’t want to listen.

“IED, apparently.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah – you never really think it’s gonna be you, do you? You never think it’s gonna be someone you know.”

“You knew him?”

“A bit. He was a good guy.”

It’s then that Ian realises he’d never thought to ask Macy’s first name.

 

 


End file.
